The People We Practice On
by hauntedlittledoll
Summary: Title taken from Pamela Dugdale.  A story where age-based status is questioned and insults are exchanged with great frequency.  Maturity is often overrated.


_"Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness, and cooperation, and kindness, and caring-quite often the hard way."_

_-Pamela Dugdale_

"Even if I were not millennia older than any human alive, need I remind you that my vessel is several years older than the both of you?"

"_Need I remind you_," Dean returned, imitating Castiel's somewhat didactic manner of speaking, "that you are the most naïve angel like _ever_?"

"Human maturity is not measured in the number of . . . of . . . of _conquests_, Dean!"

"Amen, Brother Cas," Sam inserted his own two cents as he dumped take-out on the table. "Not that I really want to know what you're fighting about, but I'm already feeling pretty good about siding with Cas this time around."

"Dude!" Dean glared. "He's totally trying to steal the oldest brother position, and just bringing sex into the conversation to distract us."

"Sneaky," Sam approved, with an appreciative nod. "Not gonna work, but sneaky."

"He's learning," Dean declared proudly.

Castiel glared at them both. "According to all concepts of human time, I am older. Why you persist in presenting me as the youngest brother in your ever-changing farce—"

"Finest alias ever," Dean corrected, waving the wallet of identification at the root of the argument, "backed up by the best forgery available."

Castiel continued as if he hadn't even noticed Dean talking. It was a skill gained by much practice. "—is something I cannot understand."

Sam sighed. "Look man, you've only been on earth for a few years total in all that time, and you've only been falling for less than a year. That makes you a baby human. Besides, Dean's ego and identity depend on his status as the eldest. You wouldn't want to give him an identity crisis, would you?"

Castiel looked at Dean speculatively as if weighing the truth of Sam's appraisal. Dean just plain looked disgruntled. He was torn between arguing Sam's point and pretending to back it up for Castiel's benefit. Sighing heavily, and looking away, Castiel conceded with the dismal gravity of his usual pronouncements: "I could be the middle brother. For Dean's benefit."

"No way," Sam protested. "You're totally the baby brother. It's the only logical conclusion, Castiel."

The angel's brow furrowed slowly. Then he tilted his head to the side. "By what logic is this."

"It's your turn."

There was a moment of silence. Then Dean frowned, turning to look at his brother-by-blood. "Dude, that was weak, even coming from you."

Sam flushed. "You argue with him then, Dean"

"What do you think I've been doing, bitch?"

"Jerk."

"_Children_," Castiel stressed, eyes lifted to heaven in silent prayer. It was abruptly cut off by an alarmingly fast-approaching blur of white and a mouthful of fake feathers. As the pillow fell to the ground, Dean and Sam pointed at each other wordlessly. Castiel's eyes narrowed. He crouched slowly, taking the worn cotton in hand . . . and proceeded to pummel the infuriating humans with it.

"Mature, Cas!" Sam shouted, taking cover behind the nearest bed. "Real mature!"

Castiel stole Dean's pillow and whipped it across the room to silence Sam, before returning to the righteous beat-down of Dean. Then the humans joined forces against him, and Castiel was forced to lament the ineffectiveness of his makeshift weapon.

Fifteen minutes later, the motel pillows were destroyed, and three grown men were slumped across various articles of furniture in exhaustion.

"Dude," Dean muttered into the motel bed coverlet. "That was pathetic. Adopted wuss."

From his awkward seat on the motel chair, Castiel attempted to glare the other man into submission, but Dean was obstinately unmoved.

Sam stirred slightly from the floor, ready to play peacemaker. "Guys, why don't we just let Bobby decide?"

There were a few minutes of quiet as Dean mulled it over, subsiding with a shrug. Sam settled back on the floor with an air of satisfaction, and Castiel gave his own reluctant approval to the proposal. Bobby was fair. And also more intelligent than either current Winchester.

Bobby, of course, elected to stay out of the argument altogether, but Castiel almost-official driver's license did obtain a suspicious smear at the end of the line marked _DOB_. If one believed the card, Castiel Winchester was born May 9th Nineteen-Eighty . . . Nineteen-Eighty something.


End file.
